


Visions

by SqueakGirl



Series: Perchance to Dream [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Angst, Brothers, Confessions, Dreams, Gen, Mark of Cain, Nightmares, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 10:26:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3378062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SqueakGirl/pseuds/SqueakGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's visions are a thing of the past, but that doesn't mean memories of his past possessions don't spring unbidden like those once unwanted premonitions. One night his 'bad day dreams' keep him from sleep and Dean takes notice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visions

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second story in my Perchance to Dream three part series on Team Free Will's visions, dreams, and nightmares. This one focuses on Sam and the memories that linger with him after his many possessions. Once again I attempted to write in the present tense.

Sam watches the water spiral down the sink’s drain, not truly seeing it, but rather allowing his mind to slip blissfully into nothing. With hands shaking like a wind-tossed tree branch, he dips his fingers under the faucet’s stream and brings the water to his face. He splashes it onto his neck, heaving a long sigh. His breath shakes just as much as his hands.

Grabbing a towel from the steel rack beside the sink, he pats away the moisture. The motel mirror in front of him is rusty around the edges and cracked in the corner. Yellowing wallpaper stretches out on either side of him, creating a sickly hue all around. 

Sam replaces the towel on its rack, but doesn’t move to leave the bathroom. Instead he stands before the mirror scrutinizing his face. Dark circles and his neglected stubble lend a haggard and strained look to his whole appearance. Sam runs shaking fingers through his tangled hair and peers closer at his reflection.

There are times when Sam wonders if the man that stares back at him in the mirror is truly him. Too many people have worn his face in the past. Sam sometimes catches himself wondering if he’s still alone in his own head. He can never be too sure what’s lurking beneath the surface of his own skin – another demon, another angel?

Instinctively, Sam pinches his left palm. 

Each of those unwanted guests wore his body. Someone else smiled his smile. Someone else ran their fingers through his hair. Someone else spoke with his voice. 

And someone else used his hands to kill. 

Sam shuts his eyes and grabs a hold of the sink, ducking his head. He tries so hard not to see those things. The terrible things others have made him do. _It’s not your fault,_ Dean has told him. _That’s not you, Sammy_.

But the image is still there. The visions of his hand falling on a friend’s head and the blinding light that followed are still there, burned into Sam’s memories. Everyone has those memories they don’t wish to remember, but spring unbidden to their mind’s eye when least expected anyway.

That’s how it’s always been, Sam thinks. From Yellow-Eyes to Lucifer to Gadreel. How long will he be himself before he’s someone else again? How long before he has someone else’s memories rattling around in his brain?

Sam pinches his left palm again, digging his fingers into the calloused flesh.

There are memories in my head that aren’t my own, Sam thinks. There are things I can’t ever un-see. 

Things he witnessed with his eyes when they belonged to someone else.

A rustle of fabric sounds behind Sam and he turns to see Dean standing in the bathroom’s doorway. Sam’s brother eyes him carefully, his mouth set in a frown and his brow narrowed in concern. The motel room beyond the bathroom is still dark, and Dean’s motel bed is unmade with the sheets kicked to the floor. Sam’s bed lays untouched; the covers still tucked.

“Sammy, what’s wrong?” Dean croaks out. There’s sleep in his voice, but his eyes are alert. “Did you ever go to bed last night?”

Sam can’t seem to find his voice. Instead he runs his hands through his hair, looking anywhere but at his brother.

“Sammy?” Dean shortens the distance between them and examines Sam’s face. 

Sam nods his head still not looking at Dean. “I’m fine.”

“Like hell you are,” Dean counters. He reaches out and grabs a hold of Sam’s upper right arm. He gives the arm a gentle tug, and Sam finally looks at him.

“It’s nothing, Dean,” Sam lies. “Just a bad dream.”

“Funny, usually you need to be in bed – asleep - for that to work,” Dean challenges. He hasn’t let go of Sam’s arm. 

Sam leans against the bathroom sink and ducks his head. He doesn’t know what to say to Dean. Dean’s never really known what it’s like. To have someone else inside his skin and walk around in it. True, Dean’s eyes had gone black months ago, but they were still his own eyes. It was still his body. Sam smiles bitterly at the sudden surge of envy that washes over him at the thought of his brother’s demonic holiday. And Sam hates himself for it.

“Alright, so I haven’t slept in a while,” Sam finds himself confessing. He shakes Dean’s hand loose and pushes past him out of the bathroom. He smacks the light switch as he goes, leaving Dean in the dark.

“Sam, you’d tell me if something was up?” Dean asks. He’s in Sam’s space again, trying to catch his eye. Sam wants to push him away.

“Yeah.”

“Promise me?”

“Dude, we got bigger problems than my insomnia right now,” Sam counters. He gestures to Dean’s right arm where the Mark of Cain peeks from beneath Dean’s black t-shirt. Dean self-consciously places a hand over it, but doesn’t break eye contact with Sam.

“What’s wrong?” he presses now with an edge to his voice. “Look, man, I know we got a lot on our plate at the moment. But just because we got the Mark to deal with doesn’t mean you should completely stop looking after yourself.”

Sam rubs a hand over his face, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

“Fine,” Sam mumbles into his hand.

“I swear to God, Sam, you keep sayin’ you're fine, and –” Dean begins, but Sam cuts him off.

“No, Dean, no. I mean: fine, I’ll tell you.” Sam sits down on the edge of his made bed. Dean sits on his own disheveled one. 

Sam runs a hand through his hair once more, steeling himself. Dean watches him closely, his mouth set in a firm line and his hands clasped tightly between his knees.

“It’s nothing we need to worry about,” Sam prefaces. Dean doesn’t look convinced, but Sam continues, “Sometimes – sometimes I have bad dreams. And sometimes I have bad day dreams.”

“’Bad day dreams’?” Dean repeats. There’s a strange quirk to his lips as he contemplates the term, but catches Sam’s ashen look and represses a full smile. Sam ignores him.

“Yeah, I don’t know how else to put it,” Sam confesses. He looks down at his hands and clenches his fists close. He slowly unfurls them as he says, “It’s not visions, not like the old ones I used to have, but like, I just have these moments where I…where I wonder if what I’m seeing – what I’m doing – is really me.”

Dean straightens up and his face is once again a mask of concern. “What do you mean?”

Sam’s fingers are in his hair again. “Sometimes I see myself, like a vision, hurting people. Not me – but when I wasn’t me. When –”

“When you were possessed?” Dean finishes. He’s turned away from Sam. Sam can only see the silhouette of his face in the dark.

“Yeah, when I was possessed,” Sam sighs. “You know how you don’t want to think about a certain memory? Whether it’s embarrassing or…just hurts?” Sam explains. “But without warning it just kind of comes to you. You remember it in such detail that it stops you. Like a vision, but not.” 

Dean’s silhouette nods. “Yeah.”

“Sometimes these ‘visions’ are me when Meg tried to hurt Jo. I can see myself throwing her around that bar and tying her up,” Sam describes his voice low and flat. He covers his face with his hands. “I see myself hitting you in that cemetery. I was screaming so loud inside my own head. Yelling at my hands to stop, but I couldn’t stop – for a moment I thought I wouldn’t…”

“But you did,” Dean says quietly. He’s facing Sam again, leaning closer. 

“I didn’t stop myself when I killed Kevin,” Sam says through his gritted teeth. 

The silence that follows reverberates through the air. Dean shifts uncomfortably on his mattress and Sam’s face is buried in his hands.

“You didn’t kill Kevin, Gadreel did.” Dean’s voice pierces the silence with a note of anger. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Sam. That’s on me. Kevin’s blood is on my hands.”

“Yeah, well, your hands didn’t kill him, did they?” Sam snaps. He’s on his feet, not sure what he plans on doing now that he’s standing. 

Dean stands too.

“Sam, you know that was my fault,” Dean insists. “I let Gadreel in – I as good as killed Kevin.”

Sam shakes his head. “Shut up, just shut up, Dean. I knew you’d do this.” Sam picks up his coat from where he’d slung it on a chair earlier and moves to the motel door. His hand is on the doorknob, but before he can exit the room, Dean’s arm slams against the door, holding it shut.

“Sam, listen to me,” Dean pleads. The broken tone in his voice catches Sam off guard. He takes his hand away from the door.

Sam shakes his head, looking away from Dean. “I don’t need to hear another one of your self-pitying rants, Dean. You don’t –” Sam clenches his hands and grits his teeth. He presses on. “You don’t know what it feels like. To not be alone in your own skin.”

Dean’s head is bent and his eyes remain focused on the space between their feet.

“I’m sorry.”

Sam blinks not sure he’s heard the words correctly. “What?” he whispers.

Dean opens his mouth and closes it. He moves away from the door and turns his back to Sam. 

“Dean?” 

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” Dean repeats. He doesn’t turn around. 

The past sleepless nights suddenly wash exhaustion over Sam, and he lowers himself down into a chair at the motel’s kitchen table. Dean turns slowly at the sound of the chair scraping against the linoleum floor. Sam locks eyes with his brother, but no one speaks. 

With stiff movements, Dean walks over to the table and pulls out a chair for himself too. He folds his arms on the table and stares at the grains of wood on its surface. Still Dean doesn’t talk.

Sam clears his throat. “Dean?” Sam asks again. He can’t find any other words.

“I’m sorry for tricking you,” Dean finally says. “I’m sorry for lying to you – for hurting you.” Dean lets out a long shaky sigh. He rubs at his eyes and keeps his head low. His sleeve shifts up as he moves his arm, and the Mark of Cain stands out clear in the red light from the motel sign outside.

Sam leans back in his chair. 

“I was scared,” Dean continues, his left hand lands tightly over the Mark of Cain, hiding it from Sam’s gaze. “I don’t – I don’t know how to – how to….”

Sitting up, Sam scoots his chair in and leans his elbows on the table. 

“You understand why I was so angry at you?” Sam’s voice is low and his movements careful. He wants Dean to understand. “I thought, of all people, you would know. That you would know what I went through with Meg, with Lucifer. With Lucifer, Dean.” Sam presses a hand over his forehead and leans into it. “I never thought my own brother would –“

“What do you want me to say, Sam?” Dean lifts his head. “I’m sorry.”

Sam jabs his finger against the table’s surface, emphasizing each word. “But if given the same choice, would you do it again?”

Dean blanches and the grip over the Mark of Cain tightens. Sam frowns at his brother. 

“I don’t know,” Dean confesses.

“That’s not an answer,” Sam challenges.

Dean shakes his head. “Well, it’s all I got.”

“All you got?” Sam repeats slowly. His anger bristles to the surface again. “All you got? What the hell does that even mean, Dean?” he snaps. 

“Look, Sam, I’m messed up. Now. Before. Hell, if I thought I’d live that long, I guarantee you ten years from now I’ll still be one messed up son of a bitch,” Dean explains. Sam shifts in his seat as if he’s about to protest, but Dean continues, “When you were dying, all I could think is what am I supposed to do? If you die, what am I supposed to do?”

“You keep living, Dean,” Sam says quietly.

“I don’t know how.”

Sam doesn’t laugh, instead he blurts out, “I don’t really know how either. I tell myself I do.”

The two stare at one another from across the table. Self-consciously, Sam pinches his left palm. Dean catches the gesture, his own hand still resting over the Mark.

“Do you do that still?” Dean asks nodding to Sam’s hand. The previous topic dropped.

Sam drops both hands into his lap. “Not always. Sometimes. It helps.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“But you know you’re not – I mean this right here is real, Sam.” Dean waves a hand between the two of them.

“Sometimes it’s nice to remind myself,” says Sam in a small voice. 

“Sammy,” Dean begins, his gaze lingers where Sam’ lefts palm had been seconds before. “If you ever aren’t sure you’re you, just tell me. I’ll try to help. Don’t know how good I’ll do, but don’t keep that from me, man.”

Sam nods to the Mark of Cain. “And you?”

“And me?” Dean asks innocently.

“I haven’t slept the past two nights, Dean. I’ve heard you talking in your sleep,” Sam reveals. “You’re having nightmares.”

“Yeah, so?”

“You dream about the Mark.” It wasn’t a question. “You dream about hurting people because of it.”

Dean sets his mouth in a thin line and stares out the window, watching the motel’s neon logo hanging over the front office flicker with its lukewarm red light. The sun will rise soon. It’s still not light out, but the horizon beyond the motel and over the highway glimmers with the grey of the coming dawn.

“It sucks,” Dean confesses, a nonchalant grin not quiet reaching the lost look in his eyes. 

“You know, Dean, if you ever feel like…you’re not in control. Tell me,” Sam offers. “I want to be able to help too.”

Dean’s grin is a little more genuine now. “Do you think if I pinch my palm, it might help?”

Sam’s smile matches his brother’s. “It couldn’t hurt.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Please leave a comment. I am always happy to welcome feedback and constructive criticism.


End file.
